


101

by Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me



Series: Little Mary [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Concerned Dean, Destiel - Freeform, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fatherhood, Illnesses, Love, Loving Castiel, Loving Dean, Loving Marriage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:24:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me/pseuds/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's his baby girl, he can't help but worry. No matter what Cas says, Mary isn't feeling well and it's all Dean can do to stay calm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	101

            “ _What’s_ her temperature?”

            In her five, little years of life, Dean doesn’t remember the last time his daughter has been sick. She had diaper rash, maybe a slight cough here and there, but nothing like _this_. He barely recognizes her. She seems so small, so still. Her personality triples her size on the average day, but right now, she seems microscopic. Dean paces back and forth behind Castiel as he takes the thermometer out of Mary's mouth. He stops marching as soon as Cas backs away, pushing by his husband so he can kneel next to their baby girl's bed. He wraps one of her tiny hands in his fist, holding it softly—as if he might break her.

            “It’s 101” Cas says, shaking out the thermometer. His bright, blue eyes narrow onto the little screen, “It’s pretty normal for a fever.”

            “ _Normal_? How is she normal right now? Look at her!” Dean swells, bending down to wrap his free arm around Mary’s curly, sleeping head.

            “Dean, it’s the flu, not the plague. She just needs to rest and drink a lot of fluids.”

            Dean stays silent, scooting closer to his little girl. Her slow, rasped breaths hollow him out like an old stump. It doesn’t seem right. Not just her being sick; but something about it being five in the afternoon. Something about it being sunny outside and her new scooter laying unused on the back patio . . . it makes Dean feel like the world is about to end.

            Cas’s hand slides smoothly onto his shoulder, finally stopping and giving him a tiny squeeze. “We should leave her be. She just needs to sleep." Dean slumps further. "She’ll be okay, I promise.”

            Dean shakes his head, refusing to look away from his girl’s long eyelashes, fluttering against her cheeks.

            “Dean . . .” Cas pushes, tugging slightly on the man’s plaid shirt.

             “I _want_ to keep an eye on her," Dean huffs.

            Cas sighs before softening his voice, “I know, but _staring_ at her won’t help. Besides, we should make dinner so she actually has something to eat when she wakes up.”

            Dean lifts his head a little; the logic is sound—as always when coming from Cas. Dean sighs and lets his shoulders fall around his daughter. He leans in a little closer and kisses the top of her frizzy head, seizing a bit with the heat that’s billowing from her scalp. He _hates_ this.

 

 

            He rushes through dinner. The potatoes are chopped unevenly, and everything is over salted . . . mistakes he would never make on a normal day. He usually takes pride in his cooking, and jokes how he must have been a chef in a past life; and the fact that Mary’s favorite movie is Ratatouille makes dinner prep an extra special event. It’s tradition now for her to sit on Dean’s shoulders while he cooks, tugging at his hair as he adds spices and stirs sauces; squealing with delight when she purposely yanks too hard, and he goes careening across the kitchen. Now, his shoulders are cold and his head doesn’t hurt from his daughter’s over excited pulls. There isn’t a giggling voice filling the room, bouncing off the backsplash and into his ears—asking to taste test everything. She isn't begging to bake cookies next, or brownies, or _pie_. The girl adores pie. Dean passed on the obsession a couple of years back, and he thanks the heavens every day that he can team up with that little girl and give Cas the meanest set of puppy dog-eyes the world has ever seen. They schmooze him until he finally agrees to going on a pie run or letting them bake one. Dean has gained quite a bit of weight since he taught Mary that trick.

            “If her fever doesn’t go down by the morning, we’ll take her to the doctor, alright?” Cas asks, inching up behind Dean and snaking his arms around his waist.

            “I still think we should take her now” Dean complains, wriggling against his husband in a pout.

            Cas only sighs and grasps him tighter. “She hasn’t even been sick a full twenty four hours, and her fever has only _just_ breached a hundred. Taking her now would be an overreaction.”

            Dean stops stirring the stew— one of Mary’s favorite recipes, and turns within the tight confines of Casteil’s arms. As he faces him, he sees Cas smile, obviously noticing the slight bits of water collecting in Dean’s lids. Dean doesn’t say anything, instead letting his head fall forward to rest against his husband’s. As he closes his eyes, Cas does the same and they just stay there a moment, not minding the burning heat from the stove behind them. It’s welcome in a house that feels all too cold tonight.

            “I love how much you worry,” Cas finally whispers before leaving a light kiss on the man’s lips.

            “I don’t,” Dean sighs, nuzzling his skin against Cas’s forehead.

            “I know.”

 

 

            Mary had woken up just long enough to sip some stew and choke down some children’s Tylenol for her fever. Cas had to be the bad guy, putting on his _stern-papa_ face in order to make the ill-little girl comply and swallow the medicine. Dean stayed out in the hall. He couldn’t handle hearing Mary cry. Her voice didn’t sound like her own, but her tears sounded too familiar and too strained. It was like she was being tortured, and he was just allowing it to happen. He couldn’t bring himself to look into those large, blue eyes—not even to hold her hand for comfort; which of course, makes him feel worse. He just couldn’t watch them fill with tears, making the pearly whites bloodshot and tired . . . it was too much for this daddy to bear.

            Castiel comes out after a few more minutes. The room is quiet again, and the mostly full bowl of stew is cool to the touch.

            “She’s asleep,” he says, softly pulling Mary’s door closed.

            “ _Really_? That was quick,” Dean notes, feeling more worried now than he did before.

            “She was exhausted and the fever is making her really groggy,” Cas explains while pushing by him, arms full of soup bowls and medicine bottles. He heads down the hall towards the kitchen to clean everything up. Dean doesn’t follow. He stays by the door to his daughter’s room, staring at the handle, half expecting to see it turn with eager, little fingers. He expects to see a head of crazy curls bouncing towards him—asking to be picked up, asking to be whipped around, asking to fly. The handle doesn’t move. Dean watches another moment and then breaks, reaching out his hand to push it down and go inside. He just needs to see her with his own eyes, just one more time—to make sure she’s still okay. _Her fever could’ve gotten worse. The stew could be upsetting her stomach . . . what if she’s too tired to roll over and throw up? What if she chokes!_ Dean’s heart vaults into his throat. He pushes down the handle, only to be stopped in an instant by Cas’s heavy hand.

            “Dean . . . let her sleep. _Please_ , this isn’t helping either of you.”

            “But what if—” Dean begins, but cuts off the thought as he looks up to see his husband’s serious eyes.

            “If anything happens, we’ll hear it on the monitor. I got the old ones from the garage while you were cooking." Cas smiles softly, and it relaxes Dean a little. "If she even sneezes, _we’ll know_.”

            Dean bows his brows at the consideration. Castiel knows him too well. He knows  when Dean is focused on something, he dedicates all his senses to it. He pulls the worried hand from the door, swiftly intertwining their fingers and snatching the man across the hall towards their room. Dean tosses one, last concerned glance behind him, still hoping for that handle to move.

***

             Castiel rolls over and stares at the clock. He can’t really say what woke him up—but he’s awake now and has a feeling that something isn’t where it should be. It’s two in the morning and the moon is shining brightly through the sheer, white curtains of their bedroom. The comforter feels cool, an oddity from his usual night. By this time, Cas is normally sweltering. He’s usually being strangled by Dean’s wandering limbs. It isn’t strange for an arm to be pinning his chest to the mattress, while a pair of legs are knotted around his own, making any sort of mobility impossible. Dean thinks he was a chef in a past life--Castiel is convinced the man was a professional wrestler. His holds are _unbreakable_. Often times, he has to squawk at the man or jab him in the sides in order to be released. Right now however, none of that is necessary; he is perfectly, unrestrained. Cas looks over to the left side of the bed, unsurprised when he finds it empty. He gives a little groan, knowing exactly where he’ll find his husband. As the grunt fades, a content smile creeps across his lips. He can’t be mad. _Not for this_.

            He slides from beneath the covers, turning to dangle his legs off their tall, plushy bed.  He pushes himself to the floor and stretches the sleep from his muscles. It takes a moment to will himself to move, feeling the bed pulling at his back; but he knows he won't be able to sleep without Dean beside him. As he walks around towards the door, the red light on the baby monitor catches his eye; the volume dial is turned all the way down. With a little tilt of his head, he wonders why Dean would make such an adjustment; perhaps, to let Cas sleep—then again, he knows his worrying husband would want him to be able to hear if anything went wrong. Castiel patters over to Dean’s bedside table and lifts the monitor to his face, eyeing it suspiciously as he turns the volume up. His ears pull back and his eyes widen with the soft sounds of his husband’s voice flowing through the speaker. As he listens, he feels the same, sweet smile form once again—married with the slight burn of tears in the corners of his eyes.

  
"Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting

  
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear  
  
Here comes the sun,

little darling,

Her comes the sun,

  
  And I say it's all right ...

I say it's all right."

 

            He clicks off the monitor and turns to head out the bedroom door. Across the hall, a soft light shines from Mary’s room. Cas pads over, finally laying his finger tips on the wood, pressing open the door to peek inside. He gives a soft sigh as he takes in the sight—Dean, sitting up against Mary’s headboard, grasping their daughter tightly in his arms. He's humming softly as she nestles her head deep into his chest. Both their eyes are closed and Mary seems to be breathing a little easier in the firm cradle of Dean’s grasp. Cas lets his forehead rest against the edge of the frame, not having the heart to pull the man away. In a few moments, Dean’s humming fades into the pale yellow of Mary’s night light. His husband’s head slumps forward and Cas can't help but chuckle softly as the man drifts into a sound sleep. The worry from the day seeps into the pale, green comforter beneath him; and as he relaxes and the world quiets with his ease, Dean's arms stay strong, never loosening their hold around their little girl.

 

 


End file.
